Dream Poem for Kat #2.

I dreamt you were alone on a pier at night
when a pelican swooped down
to gobble you up whole
and as the rain fell harder the great bird

smiled as your cattail hung from its beak.
And suddenly I forgot what it was that it gobbled
and with only your tail to guess from
I guessed you were a sea-rat,

which meant you weren't worth rescuing.
Sorry. But as the great bird flew off into the storm
I realized it was you in there, and that you must be very
scared.

Dream Poem for Kat.

I dreamt you scratched your name into my back
Like a tattoo of sorts
Only the blood came from your nails
Instead of a needle.

Afterward I got cat scratch fever
Like an infection of sorts
Only "cat" was spelled with a K
Instead of like tabby.

Funny how dreams come to you, or to me
In the middle of the day
So you might have time to escape
by nightfall.

For the purposes of this poem

I will pretend there are no other poems
and no other poets.

My eyes are closed
and they are all gone.

The medium is mine and
no other exists

and I will pretend that perhaps
there isn't already a poem by this title.

And now that I have you
thinking this poem is stolen

I will show that it's not
as it doesn't even have a poetic title
like all the good poems have,
one that is like an impossible object, a koan
that doesn't make sense at first
such as the one in the Book Review today,
"Fifty Miles From Tomorrow."

If You Break Down While Driving.

If you break down on a road
late at night
there will be no fast-forward button.

So think to yourself
that nights are fast
that many have gone
you don't remember most.

That a night is a unit,
one block of time.
It will go by
As a night shift moves swiftly as you work.

But nothing will keep you busy
as you lie in the back
with the doors locked.

And if you break down on a road
you'll have to spend each minute waiting
for a truck or a friend or passerby
or someone who can put an end to your continuous string of minutes.

Black Friday.

Place is everything.
Some people count out their exact place,
others estimate.
They call home on their cell phones,
"I'm number 58."

On my way over here
I was not thinking about a computer.
Somehow it would be OK
if I were number 1 and missed the deal
instead of a number 58,
cold and shivering.

Sitting Behind Her at the Cafe.

Wretched cotton
clean and
carefree, innocent, naive,
no--
just plain ignorant.
No brain at all!

Whimsical folds gathering at the small of her back,
(perfectly postured)
the epitome of waste,
unaware of the gold within the strands that caress,
the ungrateful incarnated to infinity.
You fool.

In a Coffee Shop in Collingswood.

A puppy smiled and wagged past me
once, when I was young.
Proceeding on, concerned only
with other bodies of interest.